


Up On The Rooftop (And Other Health Hazards)

by Ias



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is obsessed with home repair, Sam wants a picture for the Christmas card, and Castiel just wants to make sure everyone survives their first Christmas in the new house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up On The Rooftop (And Other Health Hazards)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Margo_Kim](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim%20)for talking me through my finals-induced mania and kicking this fic into shape.
> 
> Written for the [Destiel Advent Calendar](http://destieladventcalendar.tumblr.com/). My second piece for the calendar can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/608569).

“Dean, I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“Shut up, Cas.” 

“Dean, this is a terrible idea.” 

“I said shut up, Cas.” 

Dean crouches on the edge of the roof, sitting on his heels just a fraction away from the gutter with a knife in one hand. There are runes and sigils marching down the blade, and at one point he’d probably be using it to take out a djinn or perform some special ritual; but ever since Team Free Will had settled down there hasn’t been much opportunity for that. 

In the past few days, Dean has tightened every leaky faucet, repaired the creaky heating vent, oiled the door hinges on every door twice. He’s also carved devil’s traps under every cheap rug, hidden enough weapons around the house to fill an armory, and lined every window with salt (Sam dusts it away whenever he finds it). There so much he can do to fix up the house, and he’s throwing his back into it more than ever. The point at which Sam starts accusing him of being obsessive is about when he decides to climb up to the roof. Those icicles could cause some serious damage, after all.

He’s teetering on the edge with nothing holding him back except a grip on the gutter and a dare that the universe won’t let him fall. Slowly, painstakingly, he leans over the edge and starts hacking at the thick icicles hanging off the rim. They fall and shatter on the concrete walkway below. He’ll have go to sweep that up afterwards. 

“Dean, please come down,” Cas calls up plaintively, standing in the front lawn (which is less of a lawn and more of a snowfield at the moment) with a Santa hat perched on his head that Sam had kept shoving over his ears until he finally stopped taking it off. “You’re going to fall.” 

“I’m not going to fall,” Dean growls, grinning in triumph as yet another massive chunk of ice goes sliding ten feet to the ground. “I’ve got the balance of a snow leopard.” 

“Yes Dean,” Cas says patiently. “But you are standing on a slippery roof, not bounding through the Himalayas.” 

“Hey guys?” Sam steps outside, his enormous frame made even bigger by the huge coat he’s wearing. “Come on, picture time.” 

Dean groans. “Not now, Sam. I’m working.” 

Sam takes one look at his situation and crosses his arms. “Well, that’s just pointless and dangerous. Stupid goes without saying.” 

“Yeah, well so’s that friggin’ Christmas card,” Dean snarls, chopping at an icicle with extra gusto. 

“It’s our first holiday in this new house, Dean,” Sam says. “It’ll be the start of a tradition.” 

“You mean you want to do that every year? I don’t think so,” Dean grumbles. “If we’re going to start getting into the habit anything, let’s make it something useful. Like clearing the ice off the roof before the gutters crack.” Sam shakes his head. 

“I’m gonna go get the camera,” he says, shooting a look at Castiel. “Try and get him down from there by the time I get back.” 

“Don’t you dare try and zap me,” Dean warns, brandishing a broken-off icicle despite the fact that in is other hand is a pretty formidable dagger. Castiel raises his palms defensively and keeps his feet firmly rooted in the snow. Dean nods his approval and turns his attention back to his work. 

Sam has been all into making new friends lately, inviting their neighbors over, dragging Dean to parties, and now sending out some stupid Christmas card. Personally Dean is happy enough just keeping to himself and working around the house; it’s a lot like upkeep on the Impala, and it gives him something to do. But Sam thinks that cultivating some kind of social life is important, and when Sam gets that kind of idea into his big nerdy brain there’s not much that can dislodge it. Though Dean is more than willing to try. 

“If you come down we can have hot chocolate,” Castiel is saying, his head tilted back to watch Dean work. “I believe the cream is still in the freezer. There may even be pie involved.” 

“Bribery, Cas?” Dean says good naturedly. “That’s not very angelic of you.” 

“Yes, well, desperate times,” Cas says with a smile. 

“Not anymore, Cas,” Dean says cheerfully, watching the ice smash on the ground below. “The most monstrous things in our future are the adorable poses I’m sure Sammy has cooked up for that frickin’ card of his.” The last icicle looms just a half a foot out of his reach. He shuffles forward, his muscles straining to keep him in balance. “Just quiet nights and annoying neighbors and the occasional salt n’ burn,” he says, the ice just inches from his fingertips. “And absolutely no—”

“Dean!” A split second after he hears Castiels’ cry Dean feels the gutter buckle under the toe of his boot, and with a stomach-twisting slip he’s suddenly in freefall. For a split second the world is a tumble of motion and gravity when suddenly he’s caught by something strong and warm. He turns to see Castiel’s face a half-foot away from his, so close he could—well. 

“Dean. Are you alright?” A line of worry pinches Castiel’s brows, and it’s right about then that Dean realizes the angel is holding him bridal style, and while he guesses that avoiding potentially life-threatening falls is an acceptable circumstance for that kind of thing, he’s pretty sure he can still scrape up enough dignity to be worth preserving. 

Dean is just about to suggest that they move this conversation to a more vertical orientation when there’s a flash of light, and he looks over to see Sam standing in the doorway, holding up his camera with the biggest shit-eating grin Dean has ever seen on his face. 

“Oh yeah,” he says. “That’s going on the card.” 

“Don’t you dare!” Dean growls, struggling out of Castiel’s arms and tearing off after his little brother as Sam disappears back into the house. “You delete that picture right now, Sammy! I mean it!”

“Your choice, Dean! Sit for a real picture, or this baby hits the internet!” 

“Damnit Sam!”

 

Castiel sits him down on the edge of the tub in the bathroom ten minutes later, neatly laying out a line of cotton swabs and band aids on the counter as Dean presses an ice pack to his forehead. As it turned out, sprinting after Sam on the cheap linoleum floors while still wearing his wet, slippery snow boots was more of a recipe for disaster than de-icing had been. 

“You seem intent on defying my efforts to keep you healthy,” Castiel grouses, kneeling down to dab at the big ugly welt on Dean’s temple. He’s so close, his shirt brushing up against Dean’s leg and his face bowed close, but his eyes stay intently on his work. 

“Can’t you just mojo it away?” Dean asks, wincing at each gentle touch. 

“I could. But perhaps I should leave it there, so that the next time you feel like doing something monolithically stupid and dangerous you can remember the inevitable result.” 

Dean laughs, and then groans when it hurts. “Sam’s infected you with his bitchiness,” he says with a gentler smile. “That was damn irresponsible of him.”

“And yet your brother is not the one with minor head trauma,” Castiel says, his frown deepening. 

Dean sighs, his hands tightening their grip on his knees. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says quietly. “I just want to do things right this time. What with Lisa and everything… well, I guess this is like a second chance at as close to a normal life as I’m gonna get. So I’m going to do everything I can to make it work.” 

Cas smiles wryly. “There is such a thing as trying too hard. I believe that the majority of your actions around the house in the past few weeks could fall into that category.” He reaches out to dab at a scrape on Dean’s knuckles, his fingers a firm presence on Dean’s hand. “Things are different now. You have Sam. And you have me.” 

 

Dean smiles weakly. “Good thing, too. Otherwise I’d be a pancake in the front yard right now.” 

“Actually, from that height any major physical alteration to your body would be unlikely,” Castiel points out with a twitch of his lips. He pours some disinfectant on a swab and holds it up in front of Dean’s face. “This may sting briefly,” he warns, before carefully presses it to the wound. It stings like crazy—Dean hisses and starts to pull away, but Cas’s hand on the side of his face stops him. When he looks into the angel’s eyes, they’re apologetic, and still so very close. 

“Sorry,” he says, but his hand doesn’t move, and after a brief Dean slowly reaches up to cover it with his own. The flicker of surprise in Cas’s eyes is quickly replaced by resolve, and he leans in closer, closing the inches between their faces. He pauses a fraction away, the tremble in his breath enough to make Dean’s heart pound in response, and then he’s closing the gap to the angel’s lips. 

The kiss is gentle and hesitant at first because this is new for both of them, but then Cas’s other hand joins the equation at Dean’s waist and Dean is dragging him closer. Castiel tastes like peppermint, and he briefly entertains the idea of breaking away to chastise him about getting into Sam’s candy stash before Cas’s tongue makes that idea an impossibility. Dean’s fingers tangle their way through his darker hair, struggling to breathe without stopping, until Castiel does the mature thing and pulls back before both of them asphyxiate. Then again, Dean can think of worse ways to go than with Cas’s tongue down his throat. 

Castiel’s staring at him carefully, like he’s afraid that Dean is going to retroactively reject him or something. To be fair, at one point he might have tried something like that; saying it wouldn’t work out, that it was better for the both of them to just leave it at that. But here, in this house, he can’t even come up with a reason why they shouldn’t. Dean breaks out into a smile. 

“Taking advantage of a patient with a head wound,” Dean murmurs. “Whatever happened to being responsible?”

“Would you like me to stop?” Castiel asks, all wide eyes and innocence. In response Dean grabs the front of his shirt and pushes their lips back together, hauling him closer with a muffled groan. Cas chases after him, not one to be cowed, and Dean’s just starting to give what he gets when he feels himself slipping, and suddenly it occurs to him that making out on the edge of a bathtub is actually fairly precarious. A split second later he’s tumbling over backwards. 

 

After a very chagrined Castiel heals up the giant bruises on both sides of Dean’s head, they make their way down to the living room where Sam is setting up the tripod. Dean collapses on the couch, realizing he should probably feel a bit more subdued after nearly knocking his brain through each of his ears, but when Cas comes to settle down beside him he can’t imagine being less than content. Hell, he’s friggin’ giddy. 

“Dean, sit up please,” Sam says, toying with the settings on the camera. 

Dean makes a face but for once, does what he’s told. 

The Christmas tree blinks behind them, one of the first real ones Dean has had in a long time. Cas magicked it out of the air a few weeks back, and they’d hit up the local hardware store for enough decorations and lights to blow every circuit on the block. All in all, it should make a nice picture, but he’ll be damned before he admits that to Sam.

“Alright, looks good,” Sam decides, pressing the timer with a click. He hurries over to squeeze on the couch on Castiel’s other side, but not before he reaches over to shove that stupid Santa hat back over the angel’s head. Castiel adjusts it with a slight smile before his hand flits back down to rest over Dean’s. The forced smile Dean had been adopting becomes instantly genuine just in time for the camera flash.

 

A few days after they send the cards out, Dean comes back inside from shoveling the latest batch of snow off the driveway to find something small and flat at his place in the kitchen. When he turns it over he sees it’s a picture; the one of him in Castiel’s arms that Sam promised he’d deleted. Glancing around to make sure that his little brother isn’t watching from around the corner, Dean slips it into his pocket with a smile.


End file.
